Twenty-five years ago, I managed to kick the addiction. I played golf nearly every day of my college life. I could hit a golf ball more than 300 yards, in any direction. After college, my buddy and I were kicked off every golf course in Houston because we didn't care for wearing shirts. We smoked more grass than we took out in divots. I loved the game almost as much as I loved sex. Well, not quite, but I could play golf all day.
Finally, I gave it up. I sold my sticks, vowed I'd never play it again, did my rehab, and finally managed to forget it. Friends asked me if I played and I said, no, never again. Then, on January 7 of the year of our Lord, 2005, my roommate bought a house backing up to the second tee, a sweet par 3. I'd stand out in the lanai and watch the old men turn it into a par 5 and laugh. Then, for exercise, I started walking the course. I started to find a few golf balls. I said when I filled a five-gallon bucket, maybe I'd start playing again. Like poker chips, when I run out of balls, I'll be forced to quit. It took a month to fill the bucket.
True to my word, I have started playing again. Oh, no! The pain, the agony, the wondeful smell of a golf course, the pleasure of well-struck shot. The sound of a golf ball hitting the bottom of the cup. The cost. The time. The frustration. If getting sucked out on the river is a bad beat, imagine hitting one three feet from the flag with enough backspin to pull the ball off the green and into a pond. That, folks, is a BAD BEAT.
I'm done. My name is Cactus Jack and I'm a golf-aholic. My life sucks. And has never been better.
Anybody else play this stupid game?
